


waiting on that morning sun

by lastembers (last_embers)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, During the War, Gen, Introspection, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Relationship, Sylvain is not having a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27111418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/last_embers/pseuds/lastembers
Summary: The worst thing about the war, Sylvain thinks, — aside from the screams and the stench and the blood he can never quite get out of his armour and having to play dead because he’s trapped under his fallen horse again — aside from that.The worst thing is the toll it takes on his friends.
Relationships: Blue Lions Students & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	waiting on that morning sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyavericked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyavericked/gifts).



> Your letter mentioned sending Sylvain through the grinder and introspection... so I instantly decided that was what I was going to do haha. I hope you like it!

The worst thing about the war, Sylvain thinks, — aside from the screams and the stench and the blood he can never quite get out of his armour and having to play dead because he’s trapped under his fallen horse again — aside from that.

The worst thing is the toll it takes on his friends. It’s not that their school days were entirely carefree, but succession concerns and family feuds seem petty now that their lives are on the line every other day. 

Today was routine: a small team dispatched to wipe out one of the groups of bandits who've taken hold of so many of Faerghus's villages in the chaos. It was quick work and there were no major injuries, but they were too far from the monastery to make it back in time for nightfall. 

Sylvain hates sleeping outside, but the Professor refused to accept lodgings from the grateful villagers, so here they are, in the dark, cold humidity permeating everything. Sylvain was built for the cold of the Northern border, can withstand the harsh winds and the snow, but this is different. It sinks into his bones. 

At least there’s a campfire going by the time he gets back from perimeter duty. He would move closer, but Felix is there. He looks pale, cleaning his sword by the firelight with a distant look in his eyes. Sylvain should leave him be; he’s not in the mood to get rejected tonight. 

Mercedes and Annette are huddled together, wrapped in a single blanket, and he heads for them instead.

“Mercedes, light of my life," he calls out. "Could I trouble you for a healing spell?” He points to the gash across his forehead before continuing. “Imagine how devastated ladies everywhere would be if this scarred.”

They're too tired to humour him, but Mercedes gets up to gather some supplies and Annette offers him water. Mercedes makes quick work of his injury; he’ll never get used to the feeling of his flesh knitting back together unnaturally fast. 

“Thank you, beautiful,” he says with a wink once the prickling has subsided. Mercedes’ hair got singed by a wayward Fire spell a few weeks ago, and Annette did her best to cut the rest of it nicely, but it’s a bit uneven. He’s seen her run her fingers through her hair a few times and stop, startled by the shortness of it. So he’s been laying it on thick, maybe, but he thinks she knows what he means. She musters up a small smile in thanks.

He wouldn’t usually have asked for magic over such a minor injury, not when everyone who can heal is already overworked, fixing broken bones and stuffing organs back where they belong at all hours of the day. 

But he saw his reflection in a puddle, saw wild eyes and disheveled fiery hair and blood dripping down his face, and thought for a moment that he was looking at his brother. He dreams of Miklan sometimes, on the nights when he does sleep, the goddamn Lance of Ruin clutched tight in one hand. 

He'd really rather not end up like His Highness, seeing things that aren't there and screaming in the night. Dimitri is — well. Still in fighting shape, which is the best they can hope for at the moment. Alive, which is more than what they expected for almost five years. 

He thinks Ingrid and Ashe are the only ones who still believe that this war has any kind of purpose higher than survival and revenge. Some days he wants to shake them, make them understand. Sometimes he thinks they’re lying to themselves, clinging to their ideals to justify the horrors they’ve seen. Mostly he envies them. They must sleep easier than he does. 

Sylvain doesn’t resent idealism the way Felix does, but at the end of the day… at the end of the day, the “hows” and “whys” matter very little. He only fights so none of them die. There is nothing noble about it. He will spill the blood of a hundred strangers, people with loved ones whose only sin is standing in his way, if he must. So all his friends are still standing when the battle is over.

He doesn't know what that makes him. 

It's probably presumptuous of him, to think he has to look out for all of them. To think that Felix or Ingrid or even Dimitri need his protection. They're all better fighters than he is, and they hate it when he takes a blow for them. But childhood habits are hard to break, he supposes. 

He wishes he had some dry clothes to change into. Lost in thought, he barely notices the approaching footsteps. 

“Sylvain,” Felix says quietly, holding up a bowl of the stew Dedue somehow conjured up the ingredients for. “Eat something.”

He must look awful, if even Felix is concerned. 

It’s tempting to push and prod, to say _Aw, are you worried about me?_ Felix would get angry and stalk off and Sylvain wouldn’t have to think about the way he feels nauseous all the time now, of how he can barely stomach meat these days because it makes him think of the charred bodies littering the battlefields. 

“Thanks,” he says, accepting it. Felix puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. He barely feels it, through his armour and Felix's gloves. 

The stew is a little watery, a little too spicy for his tastes, but it's warm. 

He misses touching people for real. He hasn't taken anyone to bed in forever, even when they pass through villages where there are plenty of girls who could use a distraction — or dream of snagging a rich husband. Now the mere thought of letting his guard down in front of a stranger makes his skin crawl. 

Felix might say yes, if he asked. He's seen him look, over the years. Even like this, when they’re exhausted and haven’t seen a bath in far too long, it’s so tempting to throw caution to the wind and try his luck, if only to see the surprise light up Felix’s wine-dark eyes. They've been so flat, lately.

He’s thought of the ways he could frame it: stress relief, friends helping each other out in hard times, _you know how I am, it doesn’t mean anything._ But even if _casual_ was something that Felix could understand, there is far too much between them for that. Childhood memories and a promise and the knowledge that any day might be their last. The unbearable terror that strikes Sylvain when Felix takes a hit on the battlefield, and the quiet comfort of sleeping next to each other, the warm line of Felix’s back against his own. 

No, Sylvain isn't quite stupid enough to try. Any misstep, any distraction, could very well get them dead. They can’t afford any internal conflicts — well, more than the ones they already have, anyway. 

If they survive this — _if —_ they crush the Empire and reinstate their mad prince, who is somehow in any condition to lead Faerghus, then...

Then maybe Sylvain will risk getting skewered by an angry Felix. Will attempt to prove his honesty a thousand times over if he must. And, Goddess forbid, maybe even settle down. The threat of being forced to marry someone he doesn’t want seems so laughable now. If they win, he’ll be a war hero. One of the king’s closest allies. Who will dare to challenge him?

His father can disown him. The Gautier line can disappear, for all he cares. 

What he knows is this: no matter how it ends, there is no going back.


End file.
